Bill Walker
Well-Known Member
mad4city said:
its clever and its funny, Spike was a genius
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Poetry
- Thread starter Bill Walker
- Start date
its clever and its funny, Spike was a genius
Bill Walker
Well-Known Member
Maiden Name
Marrying left your maiden name disused.
Its five light sounds no longer mean your face,
Your voice, and all your variants of grace;
For since you were so thankfully confused
By law with someone else, you cannot be
Semantically the same as that young beauty:
It was of her that these two words were used.
Now it's a phrase applicable to no one,
Lying just where you left it, scattered through
Old lists, old programmes, a school prize or two
Packets of letters tied with tartan ribbon -
Then is it scentless, weightless, strengthless, wholly
Untruthful? Try whispering it slowly.
No, it means you. Or, since you're past and gone,
It means what we feel now about you then:
How beautiful you were, and near, and young,
So vivid, you might still be there among
Those first few days, unfingermarked again.
So your old name shelters our faithfulness,
Instead of losing shape and meaning less
With your depreciating luggage laden.
-- Philip Larkin
Marrying left your maiden name disused.
Its five light sounds no longer mean your face,
Your voice, and all your variants of grace;
For since you were so thankfully confused
By law with someone else, you cannot be
Semantically the same as that young beauty:
It was of her that these two words were used.
Now it's a phrase applicable to no one,
Lying just where you left it, scattered through
Old lists, old programmes, a school prize or two
Packets of letters tied with tartan ribbon -
Then is it scentless, weightless, strengthless, wholly
Untruthful? Try whispering it slowly.
No, it means you. Or, since you're past and gone,
It means what we feel now about you then:
How beautiful you were, and near, and young,
So vivid, you might still be there among
Those first few days, unfingermarked again.
So your old name shelters our faithfulness,
Instead of losing shape and meaning less
With your depreciating luggage laden.
-- Philip Larkin
Bill Walker
Well-Known Member
“But for pain words are lacking. There should be cries, cracks, fissures, whiteness passing over chintz covers, interference with the sense of time, of space; the sense also of extreme fixity in passing objects; and sounds very remote and then very close; flesh being gashed and blood spurting, a joint suddenly twisted - beneath all of which appears something very important, yet remote, to be just held in solitude.”
Virginia Woolf, The Waves
Virginia Woolf, The Waves
Mankymeat FC
Well-Known Member
- Joined
- 13 Sep 2014
- Messages
- 112
THE SONG OF WANDERING AENGUS
by: W.B. Yeats
WENT out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.
When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And some one called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.
Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.
by: W.B. Yeats
WENT out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.
When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And some one called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.
Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.
Bill Walker
Well-Known Member
In the sand of this loved land
The shells of middens cast
A flint that fits my hand
And links me to another past
Nicolaine Jordan
The shells of middens cast
A flint that fits my hand
And links me to another past
Nicolaine Jordan
johnny on the spot
Well-Known Member
- Joined
- 19 Jul 2006
- Messages
- 24,748
Jack Kerouac died 45 years ago today. God bless him.
The fact that everybody in the world dreams every night ties all mankind together.
BertTrautmann'sParachute
Well-Known Member
God bless him, indeed! A wonderful writer.johnny on the spot said:Jack Kerouac died 45 years ago today. God bless him.
The fact that everybody in the world dreams every night ties all mankind together.
johnny on the spot
Well-Known Member
- Joined
- 19 Jul 2006
- Messages
- 24,748
Bert Trautmann's Parachute said:God bless him, indeed! A wonderful writer.johnny on the spot said:Jack Kerouac died 45 years ago today. God bless him.
The fact that everybody in the world dreams every night ties all mankind together.
It no longer makes me cry and die and tear myself to see her go because everything goes away from me like that now — girls, visions, anything, just in the same way and forever and I accept lostness forever.
To be stuck waiting for a train with anyone, let it be that man.
BertTrautmann'sParachute
Well-Known Member
Personally I'd go for Brigitte Bardot in her early 20s, but I know what you mean.johnny on the spot said:Bert Trautmann's Parachute said:God bless him, indeed! A wonderful writer.johnny on the spot said:Jack Kerouac died 45 years ago today. God bless him.
It no longer makes me cry and die and tear myself to see her go because everything goes away from me like that now — girls, visions, anything, just in the same way and forever and I accept lostness forever.
To be stuck waiting for a train with anyone, let it be that man.
Clevers
Well-Known Member
In Memoriam (Easter, 1915)
by Edward Thomas
The flowers left thick at nightfall in the wood
This Eastertide call into mind the men,
Now far from home, who, with their sweethearts, should
Have gathered them and will do never again.
by Edward Thomas
The flowers left thick at nightfall in the wood
This Eastertide call into mind the men,
Now far from home, who, with their sweethearts, should
Have gathered them and will do never again.